Giacosa 
The  TVager 


THE  ]  [BRARY 


THE  UNIVERSITY 


OF  CAL IFORNIA 


LOS  ANGELES 


IN  MEMORY  OF 


Irving  Pichel 


PRESENTED  BY 


Mrs.   Irving  Pichel 


he  Wager:  a  Poetic 
Comedy  in  One  Act: 
by  Giuseppe  Giacosa: 
Translated  by  Barrett  H. 
Oark 


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QtNBNAL    EDITOR 


The  Wager:  a  Poetic 
Comedy  in  One  Act: 
by  Giuseppe  Giacosa: 
Translated  by  Barrett  H. 
Clark 


Samuel  French :  Publisher 

28-30  West  Thirty-eighth  Street :  New  York 

LONDON 

Samuel  French,  Ltd. 


26  SOUTHAMPTON  STREET,  STRAND 


COPYRIGHT,   I9J4, 
BY  BAHRETT  HARPER  CLARK 


GIUSEPPE  GIACOSA. 

Giacosa  was  one  of  the  originators  of  modern 
Italian  drama.  His  best  plays — "  As  the  Leaves," 
"Sad  Loves,"  and  "The  Stronger  "—take  rank 
among  the  highest  achievements  of  recent  drama 
and  are  of  especial  importance  in  the  author's  own 
country. 

"  The  Wager  "  (the  original  title  is  "  A  Game  of 
Chess  ")  was  Giacosa's  first  play.  It  was  produced 
in  1872.  This  little  play  requires  a  setting  made  to 
represent  a  castle-room  furnished  in  the  late 
Middle  Ages'  style.  A  few  large  tapestries — or 
rich  portieres — two  or  three  heavy  chairs,  hung 
with  draperies,  will  serve  to  create  the  correct 
atmosphere.  The  costumes  must  be  of  the  period. 


THE  WAGER. 


PERSONS  REPRESENTED. 
RENE Yolande's  father 

YOLANDE 

OLIVIER Count  of  Fombrone 

FERN  AND Olivier' s  page 

A  FOOTMAN. 

The  action  takes  place  at  Rene's  castle,  in  the 
valley  of  Aosta,  during  the  Fourteenth  Century. 


THE  WAGER. 


SCENE: — A  medium-sized  room,  the  walls  of 
which  are  hung  with  rich  tapestries.  The 
ceiling  is  heavuy  wainscotted.  At  the  back 
there  is  a  large  chimney-piece  bearing  the 
family  escutcheon.  Here  and  there  are  wooden 
stools,  carved  benches  and  throne-like  chairs,  on 
the  backs  of  which  appear  coats  of  arms  ^vith 
the  family  device.  Opposite  the  fire-place  is  a 
large  window,  with  heavy  leaded  glass.  The 
curtains  at  the  entrances  are  heavy  with  gold 
ornament.  Near  the  fire-place,  in  the  upper 
angle  of  the  room,  are  two  doors,  one  of  which 
leads  to  a  suite  of  chambers,  the  other  to  the 
grand  stairway.  There  is  also  a  small  table 
with  a  chess-board  and  chess-men  upon  it. 
As  the  curtain  rises,  RENE  and  YOLANDE 
stand  close  together.  Out-of-doors,  the  day  is 
dark  and  cold,  although  the  red  of  the  cheering 
fire  ivithin  does  much  to  compensate  for 
the  weather.  During  the  next  few  minutes, 
servants  bring  two  or  three  Tuscan  oil  lamps 
and  place  them  on  the  tables  and  mantel  over 
the  chimney. 

YOLANDE.    The  endless  cold  and  chilling  rain ! 
RENE.     Aye,   and   snow   to-morrow,  unless  the 
mists  'round  La  Becca  presage  nought! 
YOLANDE.    And  the  never-ending  wind ! 
RENE.    What  hour  is  it,  child? 
YOLANDE.    Tis  past  four,  father. 
3 


4  THE  WAGER. 

RENE.  Yes,  night  is  closing  in. — Oh,  how  I  pity 
thee,  child !  Thou  prisoner,  guarded  by  one  whose 
hair  is  blanched  with  age,  secluded  in  this  dark  and 
barren  valley,  cradle  of  tempests!  See  the  gray 
mists,  and  hear  the  wind,  and  the  cracking  of  the 
falling  pines — ! 

YOLANDE.  'Tis  the  woodmen  will  be  content  this 
night — out  'mid  mountain  peaks,  in  the  blinding 
snow 

RENE.  Cease,  cease,  the  very  thought  doth  make 
me  shake! 

YOLANDE.  Come,  Father  dear,  come  to  the 
friendly  fire,  and  tell  me,  mighty  warrior,  of  thy 
youthful  deeds  of  bravery. — Or  tell  me  the  tale  of 
Harold — we  all  shall  listen  to  thee :  Christophe  and 
Martin,  and  I 

RENE,  (seated  on  a  bench  beside  the  fire-place,  as 
he  gases  upon  the  burning  logs)  Nay,  thou  alone, 
my  child,  none  else!  Sit  near  me,  then,  that  my 
words  may  go  arrow-like  to  thy  heart, — Oh, 
Yolande,  my  consolation,  my  all !  'Tis  thou  who 
makest  me  to  forget  my  wrinkles  and  be  oblivious 
of  my  thin  and  silver  hair.  I  am  old,  Yolande,  and 
without  thee  I  were  a  poor  lone  man  in  all  the 
world. — Give  heed,  then,  to  my  words:  my  ten  tall 
castles  shalt  thou  have,  with  all  my  earthly  goods — 
and  with  thy  proud  and  ancient  name — thou  shalt 
hold  sway  here  in  my  place,  and,  like  a  queen— 

YOLANDE.  My  Father,  I  divine,  I  guess  the 
import  of  thy  words!  Wouldst  thou  that  I  speak 
thy  inmost  thoughts  and  intimate  communions? 
For  thy  dear  and  cherished  daughter  thou  wouldst 
have — a  husband! 

RENE.  A  noble,  valiant  warrior,  who  shall  be  thy 
pride,  and  mine.  My  child,  I  am  near  death,  I 
feel,  and 

YOLANDE.  Nay,  nay,  not  yet!  Thou  shalt  grow 
young  again 

RENE.    The  rooms  in  this  old  castle  are  barren 


THE  WAGER.  5 

and  full  of  solitude.  Glad  children's  voices  should 
awake  the  sleeping  echoes  in  the  long  and  gloomy 
corridors.  I  would  have  children  to  trouble  my 
slumbers ;  to  bring  me  to  my  youth  again ;  I  would 
have  them — were  it  only  to  scold  them. 

YOLANDE.  Nay,  Father,  I  would  live  alone  with 
thee,  to  love  thee 

RENE.  Yolande,  mistake  not.  In  this  dark  and 
fearful  valley  there  is  need  of  joy;  and  youth  and 
happiness  are  joy.  Fill  my  old  castles  with  thy 
brimming  youth. 

YOLANDE.  (smiling)  I  would  be  Abbess  in  a 
convent. 

RENE.    Jest  not,  my  child! 

YOLANDE.  Then  shall  I  be  serious,  in  faith.  I 
will  confess  to  th^e:  at  times  when  I'm  alone  with 
God  and  meditation,  I  feel  me  glow  with  something 
radiantly  divine.  I  see  a  mighty  and  a  high-born 
gentleman,  crossing  the  castle  moat ;  I  listen  holding 
in  my  breath  to  hear  his  words,  which  are  warmer 
than  the  kiss  of  summer's  sun.  I  look  into  his  eyes, 
which  dart  forth  flames — and  then  forsooth  I  wake, 
and  call  upon  the  vision — call  in  vain — None  such 
come  here 

RENE.  How  now?  There  is  the  Marquis 
d'Adrate? 

YOLANDE.    Ne'er  have  I  set  eyes  on  him. 

RENE.    The  Duke  of  Rosalba 

YOLANDE.  Ah,  the  Duke!  And  doth  he  lay  the 
flattering  unction  to  his  soul — ? 

RENE.  Beauty  is  not  so  precious  a  gift  as  a  noble 
spirit. 

YOLANDE.  I  see  not  the  spirit:  only  the  lack  of 
beauty.  None,  save  those  alone  who  are  perfect, 
can  see  in  the  face  man's  inmost  soul. 

RENE.  Wouldst  thou  then  have  as  sole  com- 
panions the  needle,  the  spindle,  and  the  chess-board? 

YOLANDE.  Ah,  the  chess-board!  Thou  temptest 
me  to  give  up  all,  and  throw  defiance  in  thy  face. 


6  THE  WAGER. 

RENE.  Give  me  but  leave  to  finish — Nay,  I 
should  but  fail — But,  tell  me — 

YOLANDE.  One  day  thou  toldest  me — I  have  not 
forgotten  it — that  when  the  time  was  ripe  I  should 
be  free  to  give  myself  to  whom  I  listed. 

RENE.  True,  I  leave  thee  mistress  of  thyself. 
Though  there  be  those  that  mock,  I  call  God  as 
witness  that  I  do  my  best.  I  do  believe  thy  choice 
will  do  thee  credit  and  increase  with  honor  the  rich 
and  noble  heritage  that  is  thy  name.  Tell  me,  is 
thine  a  secret  love? 

YOLANDE.    Nay. 

RENE.  I  know  thee,  child — as  true  as  steel — 
thou  wouldst  not  willingly  deceive  my  age. 

YOLANDE.  Father,  I  will  bow  down  unto  thy 
wishes :  choose  me  out  a  husband.  I  will  accept  in 
dumb  obedience  what  Fate  and  thou  decree. 

RENE.     My  child! 

YOLANDE.  Hark!  The  bell  in  the  tower 
soundeth ! 

RENE.  Some  vassal,  I  doubt  not,  come  to  offer 
tribute. 

YOLANDE.  (at  the  casement)  I  see  many 
mounted  horsemen! 

(A  SERVANT  enters.) 

SERVANT.  The  Count  of  Fombrone  asks  to  be 
received  by  my  noble  master. 

RENE.  Fombrone!  Make  haste  and  bid  him 
welcome!  No  guest  shall  he  be:  rather  host  and 
master ! 

(The  SERVANT  goes  out;  a  moment  later,  enter 
OLIVIER  Count  of  Fombrone,  followed  by  his 
page  FERNAND.) 

RENE,  (to  FOMBRONE)  My  old  and  honored 
friend,  Olivier!  I  bid  thee  welcome!  This  is  in 
faith  a  day  of  gladness  for  us ! 


THE  WAGER.  7 

OLIVIER.  Friendship  warms  the  heart. —  By 
Heaven,  I  never  till  this  instant  felt  its  fulness ! 

RENE,  (taking  YOLANDE  by  the  hand  and  pre- 
senting her  to  OLIVIER)  Yolande,  my  daughter! 

OLIVIER,  (bowing)  One  of  God's  miracles,  my 
friend :  the  white  snow  and  the  red  rose  dwelling 
together  in  such  proximity! 

RENE,  (to  YOLANDE)  Thou  knowest  his  name: 
he  was  my  brother- in- arms  in  the  days  gone  by, 
when  we  were  in  the  pristine  vigor  of  youth. 
Ofttimes  have  we  fought  side  by  side,  and  won 
victories — as  Montserrat  knows,  to  her  sorrow ! 

OLIVIER,  (indicating  FERN  AND)  Here  is  Fer- 
nand,  my  page! 

RENE,  (after  intently  scanning  the  page  with 
a  pleasant  air  of  good-humor,  and  bowing  slightly 
to  the  ceremonious  salutation  of  the  youth;  to 
FOMBRONE)  He  is  of  thy  stamp ;  I  doubt  not  good 
blood  flows  in  his  veins;  that  he  is  quick  with  the 
sword,  prompt  to  return  a  blow. —  Servants,  pour 
out  the  Montmeillant ! 

(SERVANTS  pour  wine.} 

OLIVIER.  (seating  himself  by  the  fire)  By 
Heaven,  thy  daughter  is  fair!  And  thy  chateau 
strong ! 

RENE.  Well  may  it  be!  In  these  rough  times! 
There  be  rumors  abroad  of  bandits — and  deeds  of 
black  violence.  Hast  thou,  my  friend,  not  met  with 
some  adventure — some  mishap? 

OLIVEIR.  At  the  foot  of  the  mountain,  near  to 
the  ravine,  we  were  set  upon,  and  were  it  not  for 
the  gallant  bravery  of  yonder  page — !  We  were 
close  upon  the  ravine,  in  the  wood. —  Close  by 
my  side,  I  heard  a  sharp,  short  whistle,  then  saw  ten 
ruffians,  full-armed,  hid  in  a  thick  and  thorny 
ambush.  One  of  them,  their  chief,  came  forth  and 
insolently  bade  me  follow  him!  Then  spoke  up 


8  THE  WAGER. 

Fernand :  "  We'll  follow  thee,  mayhap,  but 
where  ?  " —  And  thereupon  he  struck  the  fellow 
dead.  Upon  the  instant  all  the  robber  hqnd  ^n- 
gaged  in  combat.  Nine  ruffians,  bravadoes,  des- 
perately bloody !  Then  Fernand,  feigning  speech 
with  me,  turned  round,  then  flew,  digging  deep  the 
spurs  into  his  charger.  Five  bandits  thereupon  gave 
chase 

RENE.    The  page,  did  he  elude  the  five? 

OLIVIER.  Not  many  moments  after,  smiling  he 
cantered  back  and,  single-handed,  like  some  antique 
centaur,  he  set  upon  the  rest  with  fiendish  haste. 
They  parried  thrust  on  thrust — surrounded  him — 
his  sword  soon  broke  into  a  hundred  pieces,  so 
fiercely  laid  he  on —  We  left  them  then,  for  two 
had  fled  and  three  lay  speechless  on  the  ground, 
never  to  rise  again. 

RENE.     And  thou,  wast  thou  not  wounded? 

OLIVIER.  Not  I,  but  he,  the  lad,  received  a  bloody 
wound — 'tis  better  now —  (to  FERNAND)  Say, 
page,  is't  not  quite  cured? 

FERNAND.     Aye,  quite,  my  lord. 

RENE.  Give  me  thy  hand ;  thou  hast  proved  thy- 
self a  valiant  lad  and  wise.  Thy  father  will  surely 
kiss  thee  for  thy  deed ! 

FERNAND.    Alas,  I  have  no  father! 

RENE.    And  thy  mother — ? 

FERNAND.    That  comfort  also  do  I  lack,  my  lord. 

RENE.    What  is  thy  name? 

FERNAND.    Fernand 

RENE.  Thou  shouldst  have  princes'  blood  in  thy 
veins,  lad ! 

FERNAND.  With  God's  help,  I  shall  make 
glorious  my  house  and  name ! 

RENE.    Thou  art  proud ! 

FERNAND.  Pride,  my  lord,  is  my  sole  heritage. 
All  that  I  possess  I  owe  to  mine  own  right  arm. 

RENE.  The  strength  and  courage  of  youth  are 
in  thee — yet  give  ear  to  the  sage  and  v/ell-weighed 


THE  WAGER.  9 

counsel  of  an  old  and  tested  warrior:  one's  glory 
grows  by  boasting  little  of  it. 

FERNAND.  Tis  my  belief  that  youth  should 
vaunt  itself :  my  words  are  matched  but  by  my 
deeds ! —  I  honor  thee,  my  lord,  for  all  thy  mighty 
valor  and  thy  deeds,  and  for  the  love  that  thou 
dost  bear  my  master ;  but  boldly  do  I  tell  thee ; 
I  bear  high  my  head,  and  cry  aloud  my  deeds 
where'er  I  list ! 

RENE.  Oh,  youth  with  rosy  cheeks  and  all-too- 
ready  lips,  what  knowest  thou  of  life?  Thy  con- 
fidence, thy  bravery,  thy  deeds  of  prowess — 'tis 
fortune  favors  thee.  Thou  knowest  not  that  night 
comes  soon  to  blot  black  brightest  hopes,  that  what 
by  day  seems  bright,  by  night  shows  but  chimerical 
and  false.  In  early  years,  I  thirsted  after  peril  and 
sought  out  death  in  the  imminent  deadly  breach;  I 
Bought  out  fleeting  phantoms  of  vain  glory,  and 
panted  for  illustrious  renown. —  Bui:  one  dark  day, 
my  strength  began  to  fail,  my  sword  weighed 
heavy — my  dreams  of  glory  all  dispersed,  like  mists 
before  the  sun :  gone  were  the  visions  of  yester- 
year— 

FERNAND.  Who  ever  equalled  thee,  my  lord,  in 
valiancy  ?  One  day  I  shall  with  pride  relate,  "  I 
saw  him  and  had  speech  with  him !  "  Thy  words 
I  treasure  in  the  secret  chambers  of  my  heart, 
and  thy  good  counsel  follow. —  But,  and  prithee 
let  me  tell  thee :  my  life  and  fortune  have  been  dif- 
ferent from  thine  own :  thou  hast  thy  noble  name — 
thy  father  gave  it  thee — it  spurred  thee  on  to  mighty 
deeds.  I  grew  from  childhood  without  others' 
help — without  a  name:  an  orphan— and,  at  a  time 
when  others  laugh  and  love,  tears  were  my  lot! 
No  pity !  None  taught  to  me  the  love  of  God,  none 
taught  His  laws:  my  faith,  my  honor,  and  my  good 
right  arm — these  are  my  God!  Though  now  a 
simple  page,  it  is  my  dream  to  be  in  turn  esquire — 
spurred  knight. — Still  wouldst  thou  that  I  check 


io  THE  WAGER. 

my  words?  I  am  strong,  I  feel  my  sword  a  light 
wand  in  my  hand,  without  a  peer  in  all  the  world ! 
He  who  throws  his  challenge  in  my  face,  will  bite 
the  earth ; — my  arrow  never  swerves  a  single  jot, 
my  sling  casts  straight  and  bringeth  down  its  prey ; 
and  well  versed  am  I  in  all  the  arts :  I  play  the  lute, 
write  roundels,  ballads  which  do  please  full  well ; 
fair  chatelaines  and  damsels  oft  have — 

RENE.  Hold,  youth !  Thy  tongue  outstrips  thee ! 
Have  a  care!  Mayhap  thy  prowess  will  be  put  to 
test — and  if  thou  fail ! 

FERNAND.  My  lord,  I  pray  thee  make  the  test: 
I  take  thy  challenge,  and  will  victor  be.  I  can  de- 
fend myself  in  all :  in  battle,  in  a  game  of  chess 

RENE.  I'll  take  thy  challenge,  master  of  all  the 
arts!  (to  YOLANDE)  My  child,  pray  teach  this 
braggart  how  to  play  at  chess!  (to  FERNAND) 
Now  show  thy  skill — thou'lt  lose,  I  warn  thee! 

FERNAND.  Time  will  show,  my  lord! —  For 
what  then  shall  we  play? 

RENE.  If  thou  art  victor  in  this  game,  Yolande 
shall  be  thy  prize — her  hand  be  thy  reward ! 

FERNAND.    And  if  I  lose? 

RENE.    Thy  head,  rash  page,  is  mine! 

FERNAND.    I  can  but  take  thy  gracious  offer! 

RENE.    Reflect!    Consider!    If  thou  fail 

FERNAND.  I  fail,  so  be  it !  I  know  full  well 
how  men  can  die. 

RENE.     Come,  daughter. 

(YOLANDE  and  FERNAND  seat  themselves  and  make 
preparations  for  the  game,  at  the  small  table,) 

FERNAND.  (to  RENE)  Forgive  me  for  my  bold- 
ness, my  lord,  but  prithee  join  the  Count,  yonder 
by  the  hearth :  nought  must  distract  me  from  my 
game. 

(RENE  and  OLIVIER  stand  apart  from  FERNAND  and 
YOLANDE.) 


THE  WAGER.  II 

OLIVIER.    Tis  well! 

RENE.    I  willingly  obey— 

OLIVIER.     But  why  thy  bloody  alternative ? 

RENE.    Bloody? 

OLIVIER.  Now  that  I  think  on't,  'tis  scarce  un- 
just Many  a  time  and  oft  have  I  complained  and 
scolded — and  yet  his  faith  is  so  supremely  firm! 
The  braggart's  eye  is  sharp  and  sure;  his  spirit's 
noble. —  Ah,  his  youth  recalls  so  vividly  mine  own. 

RENE.    And  yet  I — 

OLIVIER.     Thou  sayest ? 

RENE.     Nought. 

OLIVIER.    Thy  face  speaks  louder  far  than  words ! 

RENE.     I  would  that  he  would  win! 

OLIVIER.    And  wed  thy  daughter? 

RENE.     Aye,  there's  the  rub! 

OLIVIER.  Thou  seest  now  how  skilfully  thy  child 
must  play!  How  if  he  lose,  then? 

RENE,     (hesitating)     I  know  not. 

OLIVIER.    No  forfeit? 

RENE,  (musing)  None!  Yet  owe  I  nothing  to 
this  madcap  youth! —  My  pact  holds  not! 

OLIVIER.  How  now?  Thou  sayest — ?  Wouldst 
thou  not  keep  thy  promised  word? 

RENE.  And  if  he  gave  me  back  that  selfsame 
word? 

(RENE  and  OLIVIER  converse  in  an  undertone.) 

YOLANDE.  What  aileth  thee,  page  Fernand? 
Thou  playest  not 

FERNAND.  I  look  into  thine  eyes  so  fair,  that 
speak  to  me. 

YOLANDE.  Meantime  I  take  thy  Knight  and 
Bishop!  And  here,  a  Castle! —  Thy  Pawn  there 
goes  without  a  single  word  from  thee — unless  thou 
save  him!  Take  care!  a  false  step,  page,  will  lose 
thee ! 

FERNAND.  I  thank  thee,  sweet  Yolande. —  I 
hold  my  peace  thinking  of  things  far-off ;  so  sadly- 


12  THE  WAGER. 

sure  am  I  of  losing,  that  I  no  longer  think:  a 
lethargy  hath  seized  upon  my  limbs! 

YOLANDE.  Wouldst  thou  that  we  change  places, 
Fernand  ? 

FERNAND.  Nay :  for  I  would  be  in  danger's  way. 
stay  where  thou  art. 

YOLANDE.  Tis  thine  to  move,  then. —  Methinks 
that  something  in  thy  life  doth  trouble  thee? —  Ah, 
maladroit!  A  rash,  unthinking  move  was  that!  I 
leave  my  Rook  a  prey  in  capturing  thy  Pawn! 

FERNAND.    I  scarcely  dare  to  take  it — 'tis  a  gift. 

YOLANDE.  Thou  makest  me  forget  the  game, 
fair  page!  Thou  thinkest,  dost  thou  not? —  I 
purposely  played  false? 

RENE,     (approaching  the  players)     What's  this? 

FERNAND.     Thou  seest  before  thee  but  a  loser! 

RENE.  Enough,  my  son!  Cease,  cease  this 
game !  We  both  were  mad  to  enter  such  a  pact ! 

FERNAND.  Nay,  a  promise  made  is  a  promise 
kept! 

RENE.    Thou'lt  lose !    Thou  hast  confessed  it. 

FERNAND.  Yet  I  refuse  all  favor  or  excuse :  for 
were  I  victor  then  should  I  demand  my  prize. 

RENE.  Tike  heed,  Fernand,  and  tempt  not 
Providence ! 

FERNAND.  My  word  is  given ;  I  repent  not,  but 
do  wait  my  tlestiny. 

RENE.  So  be't  then :  I  am  content,  (he  leaves, 
but  returns  a  moment  later)  Wait!  Thou  are  not 
yet  grown  up  to  man's  estate  ;  thou'rt  still  impetuous 
with  the  hot  blood  of  youth.  Take  counsel,  curb 
thy  headlong  pride;  I  beg  thee  as  a  father  would 
his  son. —  Yolande,  add  thy  entreaties  to  mine 
own,  and  bid  him  cease ! 

YOLANDE.  Father,  page  Fernand  hast  not  lost 
the  game;  he  may  perchance  be  victor  yet. 

RENE.    Dost  thou  not  know  that  if  he  lose ? 

FERNAND.  (interrupting)  Cease,  Count!  No 
more!  My  honor  and  thine  own  are  at  stake! 


THE  WAGER.  13 

RENE.  Thou  wishest — ?  I  leave  thee  then  in 
Fortune's  hands. 

(RENE  returns  to  OLIVIER  and  continues  conversing 
with  him. —  YOLANDE  and  FERNAND  play  in 
silence  for  a  short  time.) 

YOLANDE.  What  meant  my  Father  by  "  if  he 
lose ?" 

FERNAND.    Nought,  he 

YOLANDE.  And  yet  his  words  were  charged  with 
dark  and  veiled  meaning — and  thou  didst  inter- 
rupt.— Tell  me:  what  lose  thou  if  in  this  game 
thou  meet'st  defeat? 

FERNAND.    Nought  that  my  heart  holds  dear. 

YOLANDE.  My  father  wishes  for  thy  victory. 
Some  evil  doth  f  orbode,  and  trouble  thee ! 

FERNAND.    I  lose,  sweet  Yolande. 

YOLANDE.    Unhappy  portent ! 

FERNAND.    Thy  eyes  that  speak  to  me ! 

YOLANDE.  Thou  art  strangely  sad. —  Thy 
wound,  page,  is  quite  healed? 

FERNAND.  My  wound  is  nought. —  How  sweet 
is  life ! 

YOLANDE.    Thy  land  is  far  away,  page  Fernand? 

FERNAND.  The  land  where  I  was  born  is  sweet: 
the  air  is  soft,  and  songs  float  on  the  summer 
breezes.  Pale  olive  trees  cast  their  mirrored  images 
upon  the  bosom  of  the  sea — the  hills  are  sown  with 
palms  and  orange  trees :  fair  Nature  smiles. —  'Tis 
Paradise  beyond  what  can  be  dreamed. 

YOLANDE.  There  must  be  maidens  fair  in  thy 
sweet  land ? 

FERNAND.  Fancy-free  in  love,  facile  and  incon- 
stant.—  Fair  are  our  women,  aye,  but  fairer  still 
our  land — but,  my  Yolande,  my  fair  Yolande! 

YOLANDE.  (recoiling  a  little)  Thy  voice  is 
sweet! 

FERNAND.    Hearken  to  my  words,  then :  Yolande, 


14  THE  WAGER. 

hast  thou  not  in  dreams  perchance  feared  death 
before  thou  hadst  known  love?  Hast  thou  not 
yearned  for  thy  share  of  the  Sun?  Hast  thou  ne'er 
given  words  to  thy  fleeting  thoughts?  Thy  secret, 
inmost,  maiden's  thoughts ? 

YOLANDE.     Nay 

FERNAND.  Nay?  Then  come,  one  hour  of  sweet 
forget  fulness,  I'll  lose  mine  eyes  in  thine!  Let 
Destiny  then  come,  and  welcome ! 

YOLANDE.    Oh,  Fernand ! 

FERNAND.    Thy  liquid  hair ! 

YOLANDE.  Thou  speak'st  of  death — what  mean- 
ing  ? 

FERNAND.    Thy  smile  is  sweet! 

YOLANDE.    Thine,  page,  is  sad! 

FERNAND.  I  did  aspire  too  high :  my  winged 
hopes  did  beat  against  the  gates  of  Heaven !  Come, 
to  play  !  My  golden  dream 

YOLANDE.    Why  sighest  thou? 

FERNAND.  For  my  native  land — and  my  heart's 
peace ' 


YOLANDE.    And  some  fair  smiling  chatelaine ? 

FERNAND.    Take  heed,  thou'lt  lose ! 

YOLANDE.    Thou  fearest  then  thy  victory? 

FERNAND.  Thou  dost  not  know  that  if  I  lose,  my 
life  is  forfeit?  But  dost  thou  also  know  that  thou 
are  sweet  beyond  compare,  and  that — I  love  thee? 
Thy  milk-white  skin,  thy  golden  hair! — Yolande,  if 
thou  dost  love  me  not,  I  am  alone  upon  the  earth ! 

YOLANDE.  Blind  page,  who  cannot  see,  this 
long  time  past  I  sought  thy  eyes ; — I  would  that 
that  great  sweetness  thou  didst  speak  of  should  be 
mine ! 

OLIVIER,     (to  RENE)     Thou'rt  pensive  now? 

RENE,     (to  FERNAND)     The  game,  proud  page? 

FERNAND.     (smiling)     Another  Pawn  is  lost ! 

YOLANDE.  Fernand,  thy  words  have  first  awaked 
in  me  as  nought  else  the  meaning  of  that  which  I 
have  often  heard.  How  many  times  in  dreams  and 


THE  WAGER.  15 

visions  have  I  figured  thee !  How  oft  have  I  mur- 
mured vague  desires  and  far-off  hopes !  One  ray 
of  sun  in  the  eternal  black  of  night!  Counts  and 
Marquis  and  gallant  knights  have  wooed  me — but 
within  me  was  an  instinct  bade  me  wait.  And  now 
my  Fernand  comes  to  break  the  night,  illumining 
my  soul ! 

FERNAND.  Yolande,  then  thou  art  mine?  Thy 
hand!  A  page's  state  seems  not  to  low  for  thee? 

YOLANDE.  Nay,  thou  are  thou,  my  Fernand! — 
Quick!  Two  plays  and  thou  art  victor! 

RENE,     (approaching  them  again)     How  now? 

YOLANDE.  Thy  once  unconquered  daughter  now 
doth  face  defeat! 

RENE.    Thou  hast  lost? 

YOLANDE.    Not  yet — but  the  page  will  win. 

RENE.  Cease,  Fernand,  cease  this  mad  game ! 
Hear  thou  my  offer:  choose  'mongst  my  castles, 
take  thou  the  strongest,  fairest  of  them  all,  'tis 
thine — !  I'll  make  thee  rich  and  noble!  Give  me 
back  my  word ! 

FERNAND.  My  lord,  this  be  my  answer :  I  love 
thy  daughter :  keep  thou  thy  word ! 

RENE.  My  word  is  given,  and  if  thou  still  per- 
sist, I  keep  it.  But  if  thou  hast  a  soul  of  honor, 
and  dost  love  my  child,  think  but  of  a  father's 
loneliness,  and  pardon  me;  consider  but  her  noble 
blood — a  duke  hath  she  refused,  and  princes  press 
me  for  her  hand. 

(FERNAND  hesitates;  YOLANDE  sees  him,  and  makes 
a  sign  to  continue  the  game.) 

YOLANDE.  (aside  to  FERNAND)  Come  Fernand, 
play! 

RENE.  Mayhap  some  day  thou  shalt  be  rich  and 
noble,  but  now  how  canst  thou  hope  to  make  her 
happy  ? 

YOLANDE.  (aside  to  FERNAND)  One  play,  and 
I  am  lost!  Courage,  good  Fernand! 


16  THE  WAGER. 

RENE.  I  tell  thee,  Yolande  cannot  content  her- 
self with  thee,  page — 

(  While  FERNAND  hesitates,  YOLANDE  pettishly  takes 
his  hand  and  plays  for  him. ) 

YOLANDE.  Come,  the  game's  over;  thy  honor 
is  at  stake,  my  Father ! 

RENE.    Thou  sayest ? 

YOLANDE.     (rising)     I  lose!     (The  others  rise) 

OLIVIER.  Or  love  or  devil  played  on  Fernand's 
side ! 

YOLANDE.  (to  RENE)  Thy  obedient  daughter, 
Father !  Thou  didst  desire  a  husband  for  her !  Thy 
honor  and  my  wishes  choose  the  same ! 

RENE.    But  art  thou  not  ashamed  of  thy  defeat? 

YOLANDE.  'Tis  scarce  defeat,  my  Father ;  he  who 
is  victor  is  thy  son-in-law. —  The  sting  is  less ! 

RENE,  (to  FERNAND,  after  a  short  pause)  So 
be  it,  then! —  Though  Providence  forgot  to  en- 
dow thee  with  an  old  and  noble  name,  thou  must 
content  thyself  with  mine 

FERNAND.    Oh,  my  lord 

RENE.  Be  gallant,  wise,  and  gain  renown.—  I 
render  thanks  to  Heaven  for  thee,  my  boy — my  son ! 

(FERNAND  kneels  at  RENE'S  feet;  RENE  places  his 
hands  on  the  page's  head,  while  he  in  turn 
looks  in  silence  upon  YOLANDE.) 

YOLANDE.  Once  more  thou  dost  regard  me, 
page,  in  silence! 

FERNAND.  I  look  into  thine  eyes  so  fair,  that 
speak  to  me ! 

CURTAIN. 


THE  WORLD'S   BEST  PLAYS 

By    Celebrated    European    Authors 


A  NEW  SERIES  OF  AMATEUR   PLAYS   BY   THE   BEST 
AUTHORS,   ANCIENT    AND   MODERN,   ESPECIALLY 
TRANSLATED  WITH  HISTORICAL  NOTES,  SUG- 
GESTIONS   FOR  STAGING,    Etc.,   FOR   THE 
USE    OF    SCHOOLS,    COLLEGES,    AND 
DRAMATIC  CLUBS 

BARRETT  H.    CLARK 

General    Editor 


W 


ITH  the  immensely  Increased  demand  for  new 
plays  for  purposes  of  production  by  amateurs 
comes  a  correspondingly  great  demand  for  a  care- 
ful selection  of  those  plays  which  can  be  easily 
and  well  presented  by  clubs  and  colleges.  The 
plays  in  the  present  series  have  been  chosen  with 
regard  to  their  intrinsic  value  as  drama  and  liter- 
ature, and  at  the  same  time  to  their  adaptability  to  the  needs  and 
limitations  of  such  organizations. 

The  Series,  under  the  personal  supervision  of  Mr.  Barrett  H. 
Clark,  instructor  in  the  department  of  Dramatic  Literature  at 
ChautauQua,  New  York,  assistant  stage  manager  and  actor  with 
Mrs-  Fiske  (season  1912-1913),  now  comprises  ten  volumes,  and  fifteen 
more  will  make  their  appearance  during  the  year.  Eventually 
there  will  be  plays  from  ancient  Greece  and  Rome,  Italy,  Spain, 
France,  Russia,  Germany,  and  the  Scandinavian  countries,  repre- 
sentative of  some  of  the  best  drama  of  all  ages  and  lands. 

Each  volume  is  prefaced  by  a  concise  historical  note  by  Mr.  Clark. 
and  with  a  few  suggestions  for  staging. 


Plays    Now    Ready 

INDIAN  SUMMER,  a  comedy  in  one  act  by  MEILHAC  and 
H  ALEVY.  This  little  play,  by  two  of  the  most  famous  writers  of 
comedy  of  the  last  century,  has  been  played  at  the  Com&dle  Fran- 
caise  at  Paris  for  upwards  of  forty  years,  and  remains  one  of  the 
brightest  and  most  popular  works  of  the  period.  PRICK  25  CENTS. 

ROSALIE,  by  MAX  MATJREY.  A  "  Grand  Guienol "  comedy  in 
one  act,  full  of  verve  and  clever  dialogue.  Rosalie,  the  stubborn  maid, 
leads  her  none  too  amiable  master  and  mistress  into  uncomfortable 
complications  by  refusing  to  open  the  front  door  to  a  supposed  truest 
of  wealth  and  influence.  PKICE  25  CENTS. 

MODESTY,  by  PAUL.  HERVIEU.  A  delightful  trifle  by  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  of  living  dramatists.  PRICE  25  CENTS. 

THE  ART  OF  BEING  BORED.  (Le  Monde  oil  Von  s'Snnuie),  a 
comedy  in  three  acts  by  EDOUARD  PAILLERON.  Probably  the  best- 
known  and  most  frequently  acted  comedy  of  manners  in  the  realm 
of  nineteenth  century  French  drama.  It  is  replete  with  wit  and 
comic  situations.  For  nearly  forty  years  it  has  held  the  stage, 
while  countless  imitators  have  endeavored  to  reproduce  its  fresh- 
ness and  charm-  PRICE  25  CENTS. 

A  MARRIAGE  PROPOSAL.,  by  ANTON  TCHEKHOIT,  a  comedy 
In  one  act,  by  one  of  the  greatest  of  modern  Russian  writers.  This 
little  farce  is  very  popular  in  Russia,  and  satirizes  the  peasants  of 
that  country  In  an  amusing  manner.  PRICE  25  CENTS. 

THE  GREEN  COAT,  by  ALFRED  DE  MTTSSBT  and  EMILE  ATTGIBR. 
A  slight  and  comic  character  sketch  of  the  life  of  Bohemian  artists 
In  Paris,  written  by  one  of  France's  greatest  poets  and  one  of  her 
best-known  dramatists.  PRICE  25  CENTS. 

THE  WAGER,  by  GIUSEPPE  GIACOSA.  This  one  act  poetic 
comedy,  written  by  the  most  celebrated  dramatist  of  modern  Italy, 
was  the  author's  first  work.  It  treats  of  a  wager  made  by  a  proud 
young  page,  who  risks  his  life  on  the  outcome  of  a  game  of  chess. 
PRICK  25  CENTS. 


THE  LITTLE  SHEPHERDESS,  a  poetic  comedy  in  one  act. 
by  ANDRE  RIVOIBE.  A  charming  pastoral  sketch  by  a  well-known 
French  poet  and  dramatist.  Played  with  success  at  the  Come'die 
Francaise.  PRICE  25  CENTS. 

PHORMIO,  a  Latin  comedy  by  TERENCE.  An  up-to-date  version 
of  the  famous  comedy.  One  of  the  masterpieces  of  Latin  drama; 
the  story  of  a  father  who  returns  to  find  that  his  son  has  married 
a  si  ave  girl.  Phormio.  the  parasite-villain  who  causes  the  numerous 
comic  complications,  succeeds  in  unraveling  the  difficulties,  and 
all  enda  happily.  PRICE  25  CENTS. 

THE  TWINS,  a  Latin  farce  by  PLAUTJJS,  upon  which  Shake- 
speare  founded  his  Comedy  of  Errors.  PRICE  25  CENTS. 

THE  BOOR,  by  ANTON  TOBEKOFF.  A  well-known  farce  by  the 
celebrated  Russian  master;  it  is  concerned  with  Russian  peasants, 
and  portrays  with  masterly  skill  the  comic  side  of  country  life. 
PRICE  25  CENTS. 

THE  BLACK  PEARL,  by  VICTORIES  SAUDOU.  One  of  Sardou's 
most  famous  comedies  of  intrigue.  A  house  has,  it  is  thought, 
been  robbed.  But  through  skilful  investigation  it  is  found  that  the 
havoc  wrought  has  been  done  by  lightning.  PRICE  25  CENTS. 

CHARMING  LEANDRE,  by  THEODORE  DE  BANVILLE.  The 
author  of  "  Gringoire  "  is  here  seen  in  a  poetic  vein,  yet  the  French- 
man's innate  sense  of  humor  recalls,  in  this  satirical  little  play,  the 
genius  of  Moliere.  PRICE  25  CENTS. 

THE  POST-SCRIPTCM,  by  EMILE  AUGIER.  Of  this  one-act 
comedy  Processor  Brander  Matthews  writes:  "...  one 
of  the  brightest  and  most  brilliant  little  one-act  comedies  in  any 
language,  and  to  be  warmly  recommended  to  American  readers." 
PRICE  25  CENTS. 

THE  HOUSE  OF  FOURCH  AMBAULT,  by  EMILE  AtroiEK. 
One  of  the  greatest  of  recent  French  family  dramas.  Although  the 
play  is  serious  in  tone,  it  contains  touches  which  entitle  it  to  a 
position  among  the  best  comedies  of  manners  of  the  times.  PRICB 
50  CENTS. 


THE  DOCTOR  IN  SPITE  OF  HIMSELF,  by  MOUEHB.  A 
famous  farce  by  the  greatest  of  French  dramatists.  Sganarelle  has 
to  be  beaten  before  he  will  acknowledge  that  he  is  a  doctor,  which 
he  is  not.  He  then  works  apparently  miraculous  cures.  The  play 
is  a  sharp  satire  on  the  medical  profession  in  the  17th  Century. 
PRIRE  25  CENTS. 

BRIGNOJL  AND  HIS  DAUGHTER,  by  CAPUS.  The  first 
comedy  in  English  of  the  most  sprightly  and  satirical  of  present- 
day  French  dramatists-  PRICE  50  CENTS. 

CHOOSING  A  CAREER,  by  G.  A.  DE  CAILLAVET.  Written  by 
one  of  the  authors  of  "  Love  Watches."  A  farce  of  mistaken 
identity,  full  of  humorous  situations  and  bright  lines.  PRICK  26 
CENTS. 

FRENCH  WITHOUT  A  MASTER,  by  TRISTAN  BERNARD.  A 
clever  farce  by  one  of  the  most  successful  of  French  dramatists- 
It  is  concerned  with  the  difficulties  of  a  bogus-interpreter  who 
does  not  know  a  word  of  French.  PRICE  25  CENTS 

PATER  NOSTER.  a  poetic  play  in  one  act,  by  FRANCOIS 
COPPEB-  A  pathetic  incident  of  the  time  of  the  Paris  Commune, 
in  1871.  PRICE  25  CENTS- 


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